Structure Of Prayer. Diego Maenza
I find in this aspiring city, a dead-end street for vehicles that has become my obligatory itinerary every time I go shopping. Everything here is serenity, without the noise of engines and horns so annoying. And suddenly there is a roar from the billiard room that has been inaugurated in previous days. Insults in ever obscener tones rumble out of the mouth of a young man who is not afraid of the strength of his enemy, who is proud to show off his syncopated tattoos that encourage him to be labelled as a convict from some remote prison. I opt for a quick retreat and turning on my heels, with my back to the hostilities, I can hear the dry blows that shake the flesh. I go out to the main avenue. I walk around trying to forget the boy. Neither the bustle of the cars, nor the howling of angry drivers with their toe on the pedal, nor the rain of trills that falls on me like a crock, nor the recent street conflict, can make me stop thinking about him and stop my torment. I try to distract myself by devising a peaceful conclusion to the quarrel in the alley. I reach my destination, but without having shaken off my shoulders the huge stone that is tormenting me.
The market is a fire of sounds. The shouts that impregnate the crowded environment of vendors eager to negotiate the fruits, vegetables, grains, food in general, give a touch of euphoria typical of places frequented by the common people. As always, I go to the fish area and ask for my usual Monday supply. Here it is, Father," says Leandro, the salesman who has known me for years, "and he wraps up the still epileptic fish in sheets of old newspapers without any consideration." As I leave the market I hear the police sirens complaining with their scream, threatening and persuading the indiscreet ones who crowd the scene to recreate their curiosity and judge with their eyes. As I pass near the alleyway of the battle, I can see the big troublemaker being handcuffed and taken into the patrol car, not without resistance. Of the intrepid young man I detect no trace. I walk away imagining once again a far-fetched conclusion to the story of the bar fight. The image of the boy falls on me, the memory of his voice that throbs in my eardrums like a choral society of angels. I understand that this is a greater blasphemy than the insults of the great man with the tattoos. I say a few prayers on my way home.
Mrs. Salome parades the broom in front of me without any concern, always guarded by Thomas. She has adapted herself to my presence on the sofa, to my customary prostration which plunges me into trances of sensations that she would never suspect. At times I understand that I am the one who is used to the shadow of her anatomy moving around the room. I sit up with tedium and go to my bedroom.
Music penetrates my sensitivity and imprints a mark with its melodic alchemy. I close my eyes and it transports me to another more pleasant world, to a place demarcated by endless joys, to a paradise made of all the flowers, tulips, dahlias, agerates, chrysanthemums, orchids, lilies, where being lost is a blessing. It is the only way to escape from the incessant and fragile thought.
A rales are shaking the young man's body. The force, which compresses and violently releases the diaphragm, emanates from the lungs and bursts hard, slipping roughly through his tongue, piercing the vocal chords that transform the impulse into a hoarse, cloudy sound. The cough materializes in the sputum that crosses the throat and ends in a trip from the window to the garden. The boy coughs long, with pauses that barely give the burning tonsils a rest. At the same time, Thomas' impetuous barking floods the house despite being in the courtyard, and you can tell that his watch has not been fruitless, as he has surely detected some slippery bug, or perhaps it is simply a fable of his aged senses.
The recurrent ringing moves the silence as I listen behind me to Mrs. Salome's shoes sliding down the tile in a hurry and stopping at their destination to give way to the plastic sound of the headset being lifted. The tinkling of the table service utensils rises to the ears of Tomás, organs tired but more awake than his almost lost sense of smell. Perhaps I am exaggerating and he has come to the table because of the smell of fish. The boy rests. I carefully chew the texture of the food. The salty softness delights my palate and I hear the annihilation of some thorn between my teeth. Mrs. Salome removes the dishes. She informs me, very formally, that today she must leave earlier due to a domestic mishap, due to which she will have to be absent for a couple of days. Seat in a confirmatory gesture.
I open the triptych after examining the collapsed world. My gaze falls on the right side which is impregnated with complex illustrations. Could hell be such a noisy place?, I wonder, could it be an infinite scream that makes the brain and the guts explode and then incites us to pick up our rubble? Or are all these musical instruments dyed in the paint really soundless and is hellish silence the fate of heretics? Hell is not the sweet howl of silence, that is for sure, it is the torrent of crackles that melt to bend the soul. That is why this wretched one is embedded in the strings of the harp, that is why this other wretched one is sacrificed on the giant lute. Then I think of my damnation. I scrutinize this sad sodomite impaled by a flute as the initiator of a long line of sufferers and it is as if I heard his torment, as if in some enigmatic way his fictional pain was transfigured into complicity within my intestine and made me remember the horrors of sin. I contemplate the man who is embraced by a pig in a nun's veil, and it is as if I had been introduced into the picture, for I feel the stench of the obscene whispers in the constant ruminating around me, within me. I urgently close the doors of this terrible spiritual world and the image of the earthly world appears, a landscape that seems to me to be more horrifying. You are full of sin, world. Protect us, God. Save me, God. I'm preparing for mass.
Hail Mary, most pure. Conceived without sin. I have sinned, Father. Tell me your sins, daughter. I have had thoughts of lust. Last night I saw him almost naked and I desired his body, I desired it with intensity and passion. Is that so bad, Father?
The priest listens and suppresses a sigh of complicity. It is the same story of every believer, partially disfigured by a slight nuance. It is desire. The sinful, abhorrent desire. At the end of each rite of a similar nature, Father Misael will add the appropriate formula and express it as he is doing at this moment, with the most normal intonation, after having heard all the intimate paraphernalia that a confession of spirit implies. May God, the merciful Father, who reconciled the world with himself through the death and resurrection of his Son and poured out the Holy Spirit for the remission of sins, grant you, through the mystery of the Church, forgiveness and peace. And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. In the confessional, there is an amen loaded with relief.
I stand behind the headboard and shake the jar of the nard colony with which I moisten my hands. I anoint the surface of his face and I think I perceive a blink that is immediately quenched by the feverish force of the heat. The boy burns. I think I do too, but for other reasons. Sleep, son, I'll take care of you. On the verge of falling asleep, I wake up and notice that the drugs have mitigated the infection. I rub my hands once more and rub his feet with the balm. I go to my room somewhat relieved.
Praise the holy water of the nards that have been smeared on your body. Rest, for tomorrow you will rise and walk.
I am delirious, for I have looked closely at the face of the beast, and this can only happen in my dreams. It is the fever. Its drool floods my body. I hear its exhalation and have no strength to scream, only bravery to spit in its face, not even with spittle, but with a look of disgust and horror. I cry, as is normal in moments of terror, and implore heaven, as is natural for a believer. Cast the beast into hell, Lord. Protect me. Watch over me, Lord. Be my refuge. You, Lord, are my shepherd. With you I shall not want. Nothing and no one can hurt me.
The young man finally sleeps, this time without nightmares, after the outbreak of fever. The father, in his room, is preparing to change his attire for a suit that will provide him with the comfort to rest. He undresses and contemplates his body in front of the mirror. The hairs converge on the pubic area like a whirlpool coming from the thighs and the navel and surround the pelvis reaching the epicenter of his private part, which gradually rises in a powerful erection. Deliver me from sin, Lord, implore, without success. His desire is greater than his capacity for abstinence. But suddenly he feels invaded by an impulse, by an unnatural squall that makes his chest enlarge as a sign of satisfaction and that depresses the flow of blood that his nature has impelled towards his penis. He thanks God, puts on his sleeping clothes and drops to